SINNERS AND SAINTS
By Rocky

Summary: Meanwhile, back in the Alpha Quadrant...

Prologue:
Stardate 55132.3 (February 18, 2379)
San Francisco, Earth

The sky was dull and overcast, but except for an occasional drizzle, the rain had held off. That state of affairs wouldn't last much longer; the wind was picking up. Admiral Owen Paris shivered as he looked out across the bay and saw the frothy waves whipping along its slate-gray surface. Looming overhead, the restored Golden Gate Bridge was a ghostly presence, rapidly disappearing in the encroaching fog.

He could have simply ordered a site-to-site transport between his office at the Pathfinder project and the building where the meeting was being held, but he'd preferred to walk. Not so much for the exercise, but for the chance to clear his head. He pulled up his collar against the wind-somewhat awkwardly, as one hand was still clutching his briefcase. The data it contained was important-and had the potential for far-reaching consequences.

Paris picked up his pace a bit, resolutely pushing aside any disturbing thoughts. There was no sense in borrowing trouble; he'd know soon enough how the others would react to his news. He checked his chrono. Damn. He was going to be late. Maybe he should have opted for the transporter after all. He redoubled his efforts, not breathing easier until the majestic dome of Cochrane Hall came into view.

The complex of buildings which made up Starfleet Headquarters was located on the site of the old Presidio, a fort first built in 1776. Over the centuries, it had served as a military post under the flags of Spain, Mexico, and the United States. Under the latter, the Presidio had played a logistical role in every major American military conflict up to and including WWIII, though many of its buildings had not survived the onslaught of that brutal global conflict. Paris smiled grimly to himself. During the Breen attack a few years back, those few historic edifices that had survived Earth's final war had actually fared better than many of the more recently built structures.

Still holding firmly to his briefcase, Paris made his way to a small, unobtrusive building, which stood further back from the imposing towers that were at the heart of HQ. Ignoring the front entrance, he went around the side to a small door. He tapped in a code and waited.

The door slid open and Paris stepped into a seemingly deserted foyer. He moved to the far wall, placed his palm in a shallow depression and submitted to a DNA scan. Once his identity was established and accepted, he proceeded to the turbolift and stated his destination.

As the 'lift rushed downward, Paris checked his chrono once more. Despite himself, his thoughts strayed again to the data he carried, the latest reports from Voyager which had arrived just that morning.

From the sound of voices coming from the room, he could tell the meeting was already in progress. Of course, he thought to himself, why should they have waited for him? Once, anything related to Voyager would have been the primary item on the agenda; now there were other things which took precedence. With regular monthly communication, news from Starfleet's furthest-flung vessel was no longer a novelty. He supposed he should be grateful that the Pathfinder project was still important enough to ensure that he was included in these monthly meetings with the most powerful and influential voices among the Admiralty. If the truth were told, more 'real' Starfleet policy was formulated in this small unassuming room, than anything that came out of the deliberations of the General Staff.

Jack Hayes, Starfleet's Commander in Chief, looked up and nodded briefly as Paris entered, but did not interrupt the speaker, a grizzled man who sat to his right. Paris slid unobtrusively into a seat at the foot of the oval conference table and glanced around the room, noting who else was present.

Bart Cobum, who was currently speaking, was one of the most senior members of the Admiralty, although most of his career had been spent behind a desk. To his right was William Ross, who looked depressed as usual. Paris could not recall ever having seen the younger man smile. Alynna Necheyev occupied the next seat over, her mouth pursed in disapproval. Whether it was directed at him, or at what Cobum was saying, Paris didn't know. Norman Blanc occupied the last seat on that side of the table, his face in repose faintly scowling. A long white scar wound its way across his left temple and down the side of his face. Paris had never understood why Blanc hadn't chosen to have it removed, nor what possible significance it held. Rachel Teller, a wizened, white haired woman, sat on Hayes' left. Just past her 108th birthday, she was highly resistant to any suggestions that perhaps it was time for her to retire, claiming, with perfect truth, that she was still as sharp as she had ever been. The seat next to her was empty. Paris remembered that T'Lara had been recalled to Vulcan to deal with an illness in the family, which left Gelb, a Nereid, as the sole non-Human present. How did we get to be so Terracentric, so set in our ways? Paris asked himself and leaned back in his chair with an inaudible sigh.

The mood in the room was relaxed, as it well should be. For the first time in a long while, no major foes loomed on the horizon, and the economic downturn, which had swept many of the Federation worlds in the aftermath of the war, was showing clear signs of reversal.

Unconsciously echoing Paris' thoughts, Teller responded to a question from Hayes. "The rebuilding efforts, both in the Federation and on its allied worlds, continue to progress on schedule. This in turn has led to a significant lowering of unemployment, now down to an average of 4.7% on most Federation worlds. As a result, overall productivity increased by 1.6% in the last quarter," she said, without glancing at the PADD in front of her.

"All of which contributes to the relative quiet in the sector," Hayes noted. "Anything else, Bart?"

Cobum nodded. "The situation with the Breen is still not quite optimal, but it's under control. Nothing to worry about on that front."

Blanc smiled tightly, causing the area around his scar to pucker. "'Never turn your back on a Breen,'" he said, quoting a well-known Romulan adage.

Cobum frowned. "They have regularly been permitting weapons inspectors access to their facilities, and have been abiding by the disarmament clauses hammered out at the end of the war. For all intents and purposes, they're serious about wanting normalization of relations with the Federation." He paused. "You know very well that without the 'encouragement' of the Dominion, they would never have opened hostilities in the first place."

"Yet they were responsible for some of the most devastating attacks during the war," Blanc shot back. "If it weren't for their weapons-"

"That subject has been discussed thoroughly and is now closed," Hayes cut in firmly. "Now is not the time to rehash old battles." He turned back to Cobum. "Which reminds me, anything of note happening in the Gamma Quadrant?"

Cobum shook his head. "Our colonies there are reporting all quiet, and no problems with the Dominion or their allies."

"Good." Hayes tapped his stylus idly on the tabletop. "Next, Cardassia?"

"Peaceful elections were held three weeks ago under the auspices of Federation observers," Ross said, frowning slightly over his notes. "The premier-elect, Duloc, ran on a platform committed to expediting Cardassia's recovery. Due to the concentration of effort and resources, the homeworld has largely been restored to what it was before the war, but the outlying colonies are still in need of help. Duloc has already announced his intention of requesting additional financial and material aid, and the signs are that the Federation Council will most likely agree." He put his PADD down. "We currently have the best relationship with the Cardassians that we've had in over two decades, even counting the first few months after the treaty was signed back in 2370." He cleared his throat, but wisely chose not to touch on the events that happened *after* the treaty had gone into effect. "Both the past and present governments have goals similar to our own for the region and are not displaying any expansionist tendencies."

"Excellent." Hayes turned to Necheyev. "And the current state of relations with the Romulan Star Empire?"

Necheyev had never been one to mince words; she did not disappoint now. "It can best be described as a 'cold peace,'" she said flatly. "So much for the hopes that our military alliance would be the starting point for something more. The Federation continues to be eager for scientific and cultural exchanges, but the Romulans appear to be less 'enthusiastic.'"

"B-b-but there have been a number of conferences recently which were attended b-b-by Romulans," Gelb said in surprise, his gill slits flapping rapidly. His voice sounded gurgly, as if he was speaking under water; a native of a world whose surface was 97% water, he was equally at home in an aqueous or gaseous environment. The tiny golden scales that covered his epidermis twinkled in the light, as he turned to Necheyev questioningly.

"True, but the consensus has been that at these events the Romulans tend to listen a great deal and yet say very little in return," said Necheyev. "Doubtless hoping to learn all they can about our scientific breakthroughs, while keeping us as much in the dark as possible regarding their own."

Gelb shook his head sadly. "Not quite the relationship we had in mind."

"Even a cold peace is better than a hot war," observed Teller, shifting slightly in her seat. "Especially considering the recent history of our interactions with the Romulans-and the roots of our recent 'alliance.'" She glanced as if by happenstance at Ross, who looked away uncomfortably. Necheyev caught the by-play and frowned.

Paris sat quietly as they ran through the rest of the agenda, not really paying much attention. At heart, he was a scientist, not a policy maker. He didn't perk up until Gelb mentioned that Starfleet's latest attempts at developing transwarp, under the guidance of Leah Brahms at the Theoretical Propulsion Lab, had run into yet another difficulty.

"Still having problems?" said Blanc, grimacing. "We've never had any luck with transwarp, dating all the way back to the early experiments on the Excelsior nearly a century ago. Perhaps it's time to simply accept that we will be unable to produce a working prototype."

"But look at Voyager's experience," reminded Teller. "They managed to develop a transwarp drive-"

"Using Borg technology!" Blanc said, angrily. Paris suddenly was reminded that Blanc's only son had died at Wolf 359.

There was a moment of tense silence, broken when Gelb said, "Yes, Voyager developed transwarp, b-b-but look where it g-g-got them. They were lucky to survive."

Paris stirred, but did not say anything.

"What about transferring La Forge to the TPL?" suggested Ross. "He's one of the best engineers in Starfleet. And I understand he has worked with Brahms in the past."

"Geordi La Forge of the Enterprise?" sniffed Necheyev immediately. "Good luck getting any of Picard's people to transfer off that ship voluntarily." Her tone left no doubt what she thought were the chances of that happening.

Blanc muttered, "Another sign of one of the biggest problems plaguing Starfleet these days, the damn 'cult of the captaincy', where personal loyalties seem to count for more than duty oaths."

Hayes sighed. "That's neither here nor there." He made a note with his stylus. "I'll see what I can do about La Forge. And I'm not quite ready to write off Voyager's experience with transwarp as a complete failure. It may very well be that there is some valuable information to be gleaned from there. After all, they *were* able to travel about 10,000 light years before the drive went critical."

Hayes turned to Paris. "And last but not least, we have the monthly update on Voyager. The latest message via the data stream was received this morning, I believe?" Paris nodded, but before he could say anything further, Hayes continued. "When we last heard from them, Voyager was still on the planet New Hope, but were expecting to leave shortly. They planned to make a stop at one of the Vordai space stations to finish off repairs, primarily those dealing with the exterior hull and deflector dish, and then resume their journey.

"Even though we're of course disappointed that their transwarp experiment failed-" here he nodded at Gelb, "-and Voyager's return is not as imminent as once expected, I know you all share in my relief they're still alive and will be able to continue on their way." Hayes took a sip of water, and said in a confiding tone, "I for one was sure they were going to be stranded on that godforsaken planet for *years*, till our deep space vessels could reach them." Murmurs of agreement followed his statement.

Paris glanced around the room. Hayes was correct-there was palpable relief, but it wasn't exclusively due to Voyager's survival. No, he realized with a sinking heart, it was that Voyager wouldn't be returning just yet. He'd always known that their return would open a can of worms-on several levels-that no one really wanted to deal with. But now, the other admirals were convinced that the ship-with its Maquis crewmembers and a captain who'd gotten used to operating in the absence of any authority other than her own-was still far enough away not to be a concern.

Time to drop the bombshell. "Actually, Admiral Hayes, your information is not entirely correct," Paris said calmly.

"Oh?" said Hayes.

At almost the same time, Gelb said eagerly, "Have they figured out what went wrong with the drive?"

"No, that part is true-the transwarp was a failure," said Paris. He paused. "But Voyager should still be home within the year."

"But they're 15,000 light years away! At maximum warp, that would still put them at least a decade from Federation space," said Ross blankly.

"If they were limited to conventional warp drive, yes," said Paris. "Fortunately, that is not the case. Over the past six months on New Hope, a team of their engineers developed a workable slipstream, using a new alien technology they first came into contact with on-"

"Just how many new alien technologies does Voyager have?" said Blanc in exasperation.

"You may as well ask how many lives a Circassian cat has," retorted Necheyev a little sourly.

Hayes quickly recovered his composure. "Regardless, Voyager is on her way home," he said firmly. "And I'm sure you'll all agree that this is good news."

Paris glanced at him sharply. Was it his imagination, or did the Commander in Chief not look too happy?

"But the question is," said Cobum thoughtfully, "What are we going to do about it?"